Gamesphere Champion of the World
by Sammiantha-x
Summary: Stan, well, he has a couple of secrets he has yet to tell Kyle. And Kyle? He's the gamesphere champion of the world. Style. Maybe I'll tack on a few more chapters, depending on how many people are interested.


He tried. Lord in the sky above knows, he tried. His very hardest, his absolute, his most resolute best. He worked hard at it. He put in effort, put in time, put in love, tears, sweat and blood. He _tried._

So God, Jesus, Buddha, _Spongebob _tell him, why hadn't it been good enough?

It hard started with a game - no, not the sort of game that might involve actual, physical touching (he wouldn't take that sort of risk) - a game that they could sit and play for hours, reminiscing, enjoying, rivalling each other to the brink of madness with their competitiveness and enthusiasm. The old Gamesphere, dragged up from the cellar and down the street to Stan's house in a hasty attempt to remove it from the clutches of Mrs Broflovski (who had _finally _decided it was time to throw some of their coveted, useless crap out), was almost smoking from the exertion that was being poured into it by the two boys (whose thumbs seemed to have permanantly connected to the controllers). They didn't care of course, not Stan and Kyle, because they were far too occupied in trying to outdo each other. The game? Wrestlemania. The goal? It was the final round, they were neck and neck... This was their decider, winner earning not only bragging rights but the ultimate crown of gamesphere glory. After today, Stan doubted they'd even be able to turn it on again. He'd just hoped it'd hold out until he'd had the chance to whoop Kyle's -

"YES!"

- nevermind.

"And the gold goes to Kyle Broflovski, Colorado, the United States of America, just listen to those crowds roar!" The ginger-haired boy leapt to his feet, arms raised in the air, pivoting his hips in a fashion that could only be described as utterly ridiculous. Stan muttered something about bad sportsmanship under his breath, but otherwise let Kyle enjoy his victory. After all, had they been on different ends of the stick, he'd probably be making the Broflovski boy kiss his feet by now. Or kiss somewhere else entirely, but he chose not to dwell on that thought while his friend remained in the same room. Things like that were strictly for private-time - this was something that Stan had become accustomed to a long time ago. He tried not to watch as his friend rolled himself around in the air, but it was hard not to let his eyes travel the length of those legs as they stretched and _oh God he's looking avert gaze avert gaze, don't turn red, stupid, stupi-_

"Dude... are you okay?" Kyle's voice was questioning, not accusatory, and Stan could have cried with relief at the boy's apparantly continued oblivion. To be fair, he'd only been (not-so) subtley perving at his ginger-haired friend for the last two years of his life - not _that _long, right? And it wasn't like he was awkward about it - he'd managed to keep it fairly secret so far, though sometimes he wondered whether that was due to his own covert efforts or simply because Kyle Broflovski was as emotionally blind as an emotional bat. Honestly, for such a smart boy, you really had to wonder... And then wondering about Kyle could only lead to _thinking _about Kyle and then you were on a whole new level entirely because before you even realised it you were _dreaming _about Kyle, and not the kind of dreams he'd be somfortable with either, and then -

"DUDE." -snap-. Fingers clicking in front of his face. -thwack-. Hand hitting the side of his head.

_Right._

Stan's body surged back into existence and straight into the arms of a waiting Kyle, who then feverishly engaged his friend in an intense game of _Nowaydudei'_ until they were both puffing from the effort and facing each other, Kyle's hand pushing Stan's face away at an angle that made it awfully difficult to breath, Stan's legs keeping the rest of Kyle's body firmly locked in a cuccoon. This meant a very little space with very much of limbs. Eventually, Kyle gave up his wriggling efforts and muttered a grumpy, 'You win,' to which Stan responded magnamonously (cue awkward 70's dance moves whilst sitting) and then went to pat Kyle patronisingly right on top of his cute little red curls. In theory, good idea, sure. In practice?

-"Kyle - OUCH, no fair, we aren't playing PINS Kyle!" Stan found himself very firmly held to the ground, shoulders bent at an awkward angle with a very proud Mr. Broflovski sitting astride him and holding down his hands by the wrists, forcing him to remain in a semi-upright sitting position unable to lay his back on the floor while Kyle got all up in his face, making all sorts of noise about how he, Kyle Broflovski, was surely the alphamale, the dominant king of awesome, and then making much different noises because it was at this point that Stan got ridiculously carried away by the adrenalin and closeness of it all, leaned forwards and very unsubtly mashed his lips against Kyle's still-moving ones, relishing in the sound of chatty-Kyle-noise against his mouth until the other boy finally shut up with the gloating and had the good manners to kiss him back, at least for a moment. Then they split apart, Stan's head reeling and his red-headed friend looking particularly dazed and confused. Stan thought he could surely count every fleck of gold in his friend's green eyes from this close up, and the thought of this was so enticing that he just had to lean in again, ecstatically waiting for the feeling of contact and of Kyle to hit his lips, until -

- -squash-. Kyle's hand using Stan's face as leverage to push himself off the ground, and

-slam-.

The sound of Kyle as he stormed out the door.


End file.
